


Chase Away the Sun

by incapricious



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-31
Updated: 2011-05-31
Packaged: 2017-10-19 23:35:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/206431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incapricious/pseuds/incapricious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock misses the winter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chase Away the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> Written for cycle 3, round 1 of thegameison_sh on livejournal. The prompt was "spring". Thanks to kaalee for looking this over for me!

John comes up the stairs, whistling. He's smiling when he walks through the door; his teeth gleam faintly in the low light of--

Sherlock closes his eyes an instant after John has flicked on the lights, heedless of whether or not Sherlock's pupils were prepared for the onslaught of photons.

The exact moment John sees Sherlock is marked by John's sharp intake of breath. He pauses -- presumably until he has observed that Sherlock's chest is rising and falling in a steady rhythm -- before saying, "Good evening, Sherlock. You look like you're having fun."

Sherlock opens his eyes. "I'm not."

"No, I didn't really think so," John says, smiling ruefully as though he really believes Sherlock missed his sarcasm. "You're lying on your back in the middle of the living room floor. In the dark."

"I miss the winter."

John doesn't say anything; he just gives Sherlock that look. The one that goes, "you aren't making sense, but I'm going to try to work out what you mean because it makes me feel inadequate when I constantly have to ask you to explain your brilliant leaps of logic, so I feel compelled to try, even though it only results in me being more frustrated in the end."

It's impressive, really, how much John can say without any words. If only the rest of humanity were half as expressive with their faces, Sherlock would solve most cases just by strolling through a room full of suspects: in one door, out the other, and then good day, Detective Inspector, the third one on the right is your killer.

Sherlock pauses for a count of five, and then John -- darling, predictable John -- sighs and asks, "Why?"

"Haven't you noticed? Birds are singing. Flowers are popping up all over like spots on a teenager's face. The simpletons of the world are so bloody _happy_."

"You don't like birds and flowers?"

John has, as usual, missed the point.

(The shrubbery outside Sherlock's childhood bedroom window was the summer home to a nightingale. Part of the reason Sherlock took up the violin was to be able to sing better than that bird. His own voice could not match the range and sweetness.)

"I have no quarrel with birds, nor flowers."

(He learned the piano first, at his mother's insistence, but the piano was all wrong -- the notes were the same, varying only in pitch and loudness. The piano couldn't _sing_ like Sherlock wanted. When he was seven he locked himself in his room, refusing to come out until he was given a violin and a competent instructor. His piano teacher sobbed when he was told; he claimed he had never seen a child with hands better suited to the instrument.)

"Ah. You don't like happiness. Of course."

"Really, John. I'm not a misanthrope. I don't begrudge small minds their small pleasures, so long as they leave me alone."

"So, what is it, then?"

"The days. They are growing inexorably _longer_."

"Right," John says. "And... why is that a problem?"

"Longer days mean shorter nights."

"That does tend to happen, yeah, what with there only being twenty-four hours to work with."

"Criminals like the dark."

"Oh." John frowns. "That's why you've been moping about the flat the last few weeks, whinging about being bored? That's why there've been no interesting new cases? Because it's springtime?"

"Yes."

There is a moment of silence, and then John lifts his hand and flicks off the lights again, returning the flat to glorious darkness. Sherlock hears John's footsteps approach, and then sees his shadowy form lower itself to the floor next to Sherlock.

"Then I suppose I miss winter too," John says quietly.

Sherlock grins into the dark.


End file.
